


Pulling My Strings (What A Cruel Puppet Master)

by AuroraKant



Series: Winter Whumperland [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: (I feel I need to clarify for this one), (quite literally), Dehumanization, Dick Grayson Is In A Bad Mental Space, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dissociation, Evil Slade Wilson, Gen, Happy Ending, Mind Control, No Smut, Objectification, Slade Wilson is a Creep, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Used as Decoration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28028472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraKant/pseuds/AuroraKant
Summary: No matter what Dick did, his mouth wouldn’t comply. Not even his tongue moved – Dick did indeed stay silent. And he hated it. He made sure his eyes burned with fiery hatred, since that was apparently the only part of his body Dick could still control.When he tried to stand or move, Slade simply pushed his limbs back down, and Dick was left sprawled on the warehouse floor.Or: After a fight with Slade Wilson, Dick ends up in Slade's hands - the mercenary in full control of Dick's body, even as Dick does his best to struggle against the inhuman control.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson
Series: Winter Whumperland [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2053023
Comments: 18
Kudos: 154





	Pulling My Strings (What A Cruel Puppet Master)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> I am trying to complete some winterly Whumpness, so here we are!  
> I hope you enjoy this journey with me!
> 
> There is no rape in this fic - but Dick does think about the possibility of it - so, I thought I should warn for it! Also... Dick is not in a good headspace for most of this - just so you are aware.
> 
> **Comments, Kudos and Bookmarks make me extremely happy!!! <3**

It had been a trap. Of course, it’d been.

After being in the game for over ten years now, you would think that Dick had figured out when something was just bad luck, and when it was a trap set by an enemy. But, well… After his fight with Bruce last week, Dick had felt the urge to prove to his mentor that Nightwing was more than capable of fighting Gotham Rogues on his own.

Which was Dick reacted instead of planned when word reached him that Deathstroke had been sighted in the Bowery.

Now, laying on the floor of a dirty warehouse, his head spinning from the blow Slade had dealt him, he wished he’d gotten over his pride. Batman would be greatly appreciated right about now, the hulking shadow comforting when Dick wanted it the least.

Instead, he was left with his wit and his weapons.

“Fuck you, Slade…”

His voice came out rougher than Dick was comfortable with, but it was hard to catch his breath after a kick like that. Stupid Supersoldier Serum. Nobody needed that stuff.

“Oh, the Bat Brat is being eloquent today… maybe I should play with you a bit more, before-?”

A hand roughly grabbed Dick from behind, and the acrobat reacted on instinct. He swept his legs around and pushed himself into the hand grabbing him, in an effort to destabilize Slade. It didn’t work – at least not completely, but it was enough movement to allow Dick to twist away.

Standing, the world a spinning mess around him, Dick noticed the bemused smile on Slade’s face. The bastard was enjoying this. God, Dick hated narcissistic assholes like Slade – and he didn’t like the feeling that he was being played with.

“What are you doing here, Slade? What’s your contract?”

Dick had lost one of his escrima earlier in the battle, but the other one was still clutched tightly in his right hand. The rough material underneath his glove calmed him, made it easier to breathe. It didn’t help with the unease bubbling in his stomach though, when Slade only continued to grin:

“What makes you think I have a contract here?”

“You are in Gotham. You only enter Gotham when some bastard paid you bags of gold to kill someone. Otherwise you are too afraid of the Bat.”

Maybe taunting the person, who had already managed to hit him a couple of times, wasn’t the best idea Dick ever had, but with his comm unit left in Blüdhaven for the night, that was the only option he had. Use his mouth to buy himself some time and escape as soon as possible. Not the most glorious battle Dick had ever fought, but he liked his bones unbroken and his dignity intact. 

“I think you might have miscalculated, _boy_.” – there was a dangerous gleam in Slade’s one eye, so dangerous Dick could even see it through the mask – “There are many reasons for why a man like me, wants to engage in battle with a boy like you.”

“I am twenty-two, thank you very much, and that was fucking creepy.”

Without spending another second thinking about the weird shit Slade had just grumbled – without allowing himself another moment to think about the dark foreboding creeping up on him – Dick jumped into battle, his single weapon raised high. His other hand snuck into his utility belt, pulling a smoke bomb out of one of the hidden pouches.

The smoke wouldn’t hinder Slade for long, but it gave Dick enough time to faint with his weapon, before he simply ran past Slade towards the door. That had been the plan at least – but one of Slade’s dumb orange armored arms appeared in front of Dick, stopping him in his tracks.

Dick couldn’t see the rest of the mercenary, but he could hear him, and the dark chuckle sent shivers down his spine. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

Dick had the vague feeling that he would be the one paying the price.

He spun around, aiming a high kick at the place Slade’s face was supposed to be, but his leg got caught in the air. Dick’s balance was still slightly off from the hit earlier, so Dick fell like a mere mortal when Slade pushed him onto the ground.

It didn’t take long until Dick managed to get his feet back under himself, the smoke and the fight getting to his spinning head, but… it’d still been too long. Slade appeared directly behind him, his outline a dark shadow in the thinning smoke. Before Dick could react, before he could do anything more than shout, Slade put _something_ on his head.

It wasn’t the blow Dick had been expecting. The touch had actually been rather… _soft_.

For a moment Dick allowed himself to be puzzled, and then Slade pressed down on whatever contraption was decorating Dick’s head – Dick realized the reality of the situation a moment too late, when cold metal was already touching his temple.

 _The Mad Hatter_.

Recently escaped from Arkham – not even Bruce had been able to find him. And now… Dick would always recognize the technology used to control the Alices, even if this seemed more refined.

“Wha-?”

“Shh! Be silent, boy.”

Dick’s mouth fell shut, and panic surged through his heart. No! _No_! **Not this**! This was bad…. This was worse than bad! _This was catastrophic_! Dick shook his head, his hands slowly raising towards the metal band on top of his head – but Slade stopped him.

The other man simply put Dick’s hands in his, gently pushing them down towards the floor, and Dick felt his body follow. It wasn’t an order – it was a suggestion – and Dick wasn’t even strong enough to fight against that.

“I can see the questions burning in your eyes, boy, and I shall answer them. In time.”

No matter what Dick did, his mouth wouldn’t comply. Not even his tongue moved – Dick did indeed stay silent. And he hated it. He made sure his eyes burned with fiery hatred, since that was apparently the only part of his body Dick could still control.

When he tried to stand or move, Slade simply pushed his limbs back down, and Dick was left sprawled on the warehouse floor. It was humiliating to watch Slade run around, clean up the evidence of their encounter, and be unable to do anything. Dick was quite literally a sitting duck – and he couldn’t even share his outstanding wit with the class.

No, he was forced to watch in silence – a skill that was not particularly the first thing that came to mind when others thought of Dick. He could do it, of course, but he usually preferred to do it out of his own violation – and even then, companionship and familiar chatter would always be something Dick preferred.

It took ages for Slade to finish whatever he was doing – Dick knew what he was doing, he was destroying evidence of Dick’s appearance in Gotham. The man returned to Dick minutes after their fight had ended with Dick’s defeat. Another shiver ran down Dick’s spine and he wasn’t sure if it was the fear that got harder to ignore with each step Slade took in Dick’s direction or the metal band controlling his body that made him react that way.

But, either way, Dick had been able to block out the panic bubbling in his stomach while Slade had been far away… _but now_? It got harder and harder. Slade could control his body. Slade could do whatever he wanted with Dick and Dick would---- he would fight, he just honestly doubted that that would save him.

“Now… I think you’ve waited long enough, haven’t you? If you really want an answer” – Dick nodded his head – “then you shall get one. My contract? That was getting Jervis Tetch out of Gotham. My payment? You, _blue bird_.”

**Fuck.**

Dick was royally fucked.

If Slade had planned on Dick being in _this_ warehouse on _this_ evening, that also meant that Slade had prepared for every eventuality. The man couldn’t have counted on Dick and Bruce fighting, which meant that even _if_ Bruce was made aware of the situation the chances were low that the man would find any clue as to what had happened to Dick. 

Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_!

“And now… follow me, I want to get home at some point today.”

Dick’s body unfurled from its position on the floor without his consent. The metal band the Mad Hatter had given Slade was different from any form of mind control Dick had ever come in contact with before. Instead of a foreign presence in his mind, Dick was just… slightly detached from his body. He could still feel and taste and think, it just wasn’t his consciousness that controlled his body – it was his subconscious. And that bitch only listened to Slade.

The coming days, Dick learned what horror was. Not because anything horrible was done to him – well, it was, but not like that – but because he realized the depth of the shit he had gotten himself into.

Slade had brought him home.

Dick wasn’t stored in some safe house or hidden HQ – Slade had unlocked the door to a small condo in the outskirts of Chicago and Dick had immediately recognized the signs of a home. This was Slade’s home – which meant the man was awfully sure that Dick wouldn’t get away.

And from what Dick could tell? Slade had every reason to believe so.

Dick had undressed and changed without a struggle when Slade told him to do so, and he had eaten and cleaned and kneeled when the man had demanded it from him. Dick would lie if he said the constant humiliation wasn’t getting to him. He hated- _he hated_ feeling powerless, and now he could no longer even decide when he needed to go to the bathroom.

Sometimes he managed to fight against the commands for a second or two, but it always ended in victory for Slade, and a headache for Dick.

The first time Slade asked him to kneel in front of him during dinner, holding Slade’s wine glass perfectly still, Dick had managed to drop the glass, red spilling everywhere.

Slade had looked at him and told Dick to clean up the wine stains with his tongue – Dick had done it without hesitation, exchanging one red dripping down onto the floor with another. Slade had to remove twelve shards of glass from Dick’s tongue afterwards.

If someone… Dick just wanted someone to save him.

The repetition of one humiliating act after the other… Dick feared he could feel himself slipping away. He was afraid that one day, his miniscule struggle when Slade ordered him to kneel would be gone. That one day… Dick wouldn’t need the steel band around his head to follow Slade’s lead.

But somehow silent obedience wasn’t the worst. No, that was reserved for the times Slade allowed him to talk.

Like today. Like right now.

Dick was wearing soft sweats and nothing else, kneeling in front of Slade who was sitting on the couch watching the news. Dick’s arms were strained and straight, his knees bend in a perfect 90degree angle, and his naked back was a straight expanse – and the perfect height for Slade to rest his boots on.

Why the man couldn’t leave his shoes at the door, Dick had no idea, but he assumed it was just another level of humiliation Slade engaged in just to spite him.

The soles of the boots were pressing into his spine, the sensation uncomfortable at first, but quickly turning painful. As did the strain on his muscles in his arms and legs. Dick was strong, he was an acrobat, his ability to keep his body tense even better than Batman’s… but no body was made to hold an uncomfortable position like this for hours to an end.

But this was almost normal. This was something Dick had almost grown used to, even as his muscles and tendons screamed. No, it was the fact that Slade allowed him to talk that made it so much worse. Because now it wasn’t a metal band keeping him from whimpering in pain – now it was Dick himself, who bit his lips bloody just to keep himself from crying.

Slade would win should Dick cry. Slade would punish him for the noise and bath in the knowledge that Dick was breaking… he couldn’t bear Slade having something else to hold over his head. It was bad enough that all his actions belonged to Slade – the man wouldn’t be allowed to have Dick’s pain as well.

If Dick had been in full control of his body, he would be shaking by now, his muscles seizing up and turning sour. But Slade wouldn’t allow that, Mad Hatter’s tech wouldn’t allow that, so instead the pain of abused flesh intensified, and Dick knew he would have stiffness haunting his joints for weeks. Not that he would be allowed to show that either…

Slade was switching channels, his feet shifting in their position on Dick’s back, when he finally broke. It was a sad sound that escaped him, a whimper and a stifled sob. Hidden in all the pain was a question, a small, lost word trying to break free:

“Why?”

Slade laughed – and Dick had never wanted to kill a man as badly as he wanted to kill Slade just now:

“Why, _blue bird_? Well… At first, I wanted an apprentice, I wanted to own you and have you kill for me, but after I brought you here – your big, blue eyes were just so desperate, so full of pain and anger… You wouldn’t make a good assassin. But look at you: You enhance the décor of this condo a tenfold.”

“I’m- I’m not a thing. I am a person, and I belong to no one – least of all you.”

Dick hated the way his voice hitched, hated the way his mouth was the only part of him allowed to tremble. He wanted to run. He wanted to hide. He wanted to stop existing right this very moment.

“Now, that’s where you are wrong. You belong to me now, boy, and I have decided that the best use for you is as a pretty piece of furniture. I mean, look at your ass – I am never going to find a bouncier cushion than that.”

Slade’s boot pressed against Dick’s ass, and he wanted to throw up. Instead, he stayed silent, his body not reacting to the assault. His breath hitched, when Slade did what he did, but both men acted as if they hadn’t noticed anything.

“Slade-“

“Silent, boy. I am watching a movie and you are growing insolent. Be a good stool and learn your place.”

Dick fell silent, only his desperate whimpers echoing through the room. Slade’s only answer was so cruel, Dick feared for his heart: the man turned up the TV volume, finally drowning out the last prove of Dick’s agency.

A human body is unbelievably strong, the human mind a miracle of endurance and resilience, and yet Dick could feel himself breaking.

He was Nightwing.

And he was a thing.

A piece of furniture for Slade to use.

It had been weeks, maybe even months, and Dick had grown accustomed to the changes in his life. He only rarely fought against the orders anymore, even if he wanted to. But the longer he wore this cursed metal band, the harder it got to show any resistance at all. Dick wasn’t even sure if his attempts had grown weaker or if the control the contraption had over him, had grown stronger… he only knew that kneeling felt like a second nature now, and that he had almost forgotten what it felt like to be treated as a human.

Slade hadn’t allowed him to eat at the table for weeks now, Dick’s place next to Slade on the floor. He was only allowed to eat the scraps, and he had to be “useful” at any moment of the day. Sometimes his usefulness was defined by his body, his beauty used as a piece of décor to please and impress asshole friends of Slade’s. They weren’t allowed to touch him, but it was a special kind of dehumanizing to be simply viewed as a pretty piece of ass.

Other times Dick functioned as a stool or as a desk or as a vase holder. He was told to sit still and not move until his muscles burned and his joints screamed. Dick could feel the way his body wanted to break, could feel the maximum amount of abuse his muscles could bear creep closer and closer… but Slade didn’t want to hear Dick’s complaints.

No, Slade only allowed him to make a noise, when he was sure that Dick was crying.

Dick hated how often Slade turned out to be right.

Dick just… he just missed being a person. He missed believing himself when he murmured promises of agency and personhood to himself late at night. It was hard to believe something like that though, when nothing he did belonged to him.

His time in the bathroom was regulated and planned, his “bed” a piece of carpet next to Slade’s bed. His food was made for him, his body moved without his will – only one thing never happened, and some perverse and desperate part of his mind was almost sad about that. If Slade fucked him – raped him – he would at least be forced to acknowledge that Dick was human. That Dick was a person.

But as it was? Slade just looked at him and saw a thing. He even called him boy less and less, and Dick was starting to miss the degrading tone of Slade spitting the word. Instead, he was _blue bird_ now. Or stool. Décor. Thing. Piece of Ass.

Never Dick. Never Nightwing. And no longer even a boy.

 _Just a thing_.

Dick didn’t want to break – but sometimes he wondered if it wouldn’t be easier that way. If it wouldn’t be nicer… maybe he could just vanish into the depths of his mind and forget what it felt like to be a man. Maybe he could just stop being a miserable Dick Grayson and start being a happy blue bird.

“Hey, thing. Look at me!”

Dick returned to the present, his eyes finding Slade’s, his body never wavering in the painful arch it was kept in. Maybe Dick’s eyes were asking something, but Dick couldn’t be sure – he had long ago stopped questioning every decision Slade made.

“Nothing – I just had the feeling you weren’t with me. I want you to enjoy this after all, too much dissociating won’t do you any good.”

Slade was smiling – and Dick realized that Slade knew full well what he was doing – and what Dick was trying to achieve. The man wouldn’t let Dick vanish, because the moment Dick succumbed, all the fun would be gone. No, Slade would give him just enough to keep him tethered to his body… breaking him over years, and not the months Dick almost craved. 

If he were allowed to cry, Dick would bath himself in sorrow.

It was then that a knock on the door echoed through the room. Slade wrinkled his forehead, and Dick followed him with blank eyes.

“Who could that be? The mail?”

Heavy boots disappeared from Dick’s arched stomach, Slade making his way towards the door. Something was off… Dick was sure of it. Nobody ever knocked on Slade’s door. There was never a change or routine – the mercenary made sure of that. So, what was going on?

“Hello? I didn’t order anything.”

Slade sounded irritated, and Dick hated the fact that he couldn’t move and look for himself. Something was happening. Something was going on.

“Well, I am not here to bring you anything but pain.”

Dick knew that voice and how could he not – it was Bruce. It was his dad. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in months.

 _His dad was here_.

Dick wanted to sag in relief, or cry pure tears of joy, but he kept still. He hadn’t escaped yet – his body still belonged to someone else.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t hear the sound of a fist hitting flesh. That didn’t mean, he couldn’t hear Bruce’s frantic yell:

“Dick, I am coming.”

That didn’t mean, he couldn’t start to hope.

And hope he did.


End file.
